


Little House in Honnleath

by erebones



Series: Danse Macabre [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Cameos, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Family, Fluff, Homecoming, M/M, References to Miscarriage, cheaper by the dozen: thedas edition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2015-09-23
Packaged: 2018-04-22 18:32:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4845908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erebones/pseuds/erebones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Corypheus is defeated, Cullen and Dorian make a long-awaited trip to Honnleath to visit Mia's family. The Rutherford clan welcomes Dorian with (mostly) open arms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The farm was nestled like a babe in a green-swaddled cradle, held low in the verdant basin that bordered the eastern foothills of the Frostback Mountains. A soft summer wind kissed Dorian’s cheeks and teased at the edge of his hood as he stood at the cusp of the valley, looking down over a clean carpet of corn and rippling, golden wheat. At his side, Cullen tightened his hold on the reins of their packhorse and let out a long, shaky sigh.

“It doesn't look as if I left at all.”

Dorian thought back to the night before, stomach thick with nerves, prying out what last bits of information he could in preparation for the coming day.

_“Tell me about them.” He leaned against Cullen's solid bulk, closer to his warmth, while the fire flickered cheerily before them._

_“My siblings?”_

_“Mm.”_

_“Well, Mia you know. Short for Emmalia, but she’ll skin you alive if you call her that. She’s married to Riordan, and they have two children, Michel and Petunia.”_

_“Michel is an Orlesian name.”_

_“Riordan hails from there. My father mistrusted him for that, but he won Mia’s heart so completely he couldn’t say no to their union." He huffed a laugh that Dorian could feel all through his bones. “I wasn’t there for it—I was stationed at the Kinloch Circle at the time. But she wrote to me about it, Riordan calling on her every day, bringing her flowers and fresh cheese and sometimes new bread from his aunt’s bakery. Pretty things, and things that were useful to the family. Two years later, father finally agreed.”_

_“And their children?”_

_“Michel is twelve. He was their firstborn, a year after their marriage. She bore three more after him, but they were all miscarriages.” He sighed into the short-cropped hair at Dorian's temple. “Mia is a strong woman, but her body wasn’t made for childbearing. Petunia is a bit of a miracle. She’s five, small and sickly, but Michel dotes on her and so far she’s weathered the Ferelden winters admirably.”_

_“She sounds like her mother. Like you. Strong. Defying expectations.”_

_“She’s  a Rutherford,” was the fond response. He curled his arm around Dorian, pulling him closer. “Why all the questions? Nervous?”_

_“Of course I’m nervous. I’m about to be swarmed by untold numbers of golden-haired Fereldens and plied with questions about my accent, my tattoos, probably the color of my skin. Not that I’m not delighted to meet them all,” he added, stroking the weathered back of Cullen's hand with his fingertips. “I am. Truly.”_

_“It's all right to be nervous,” Cullen soothed. “Maker knows I’ll be quaking in my boots when we arrive in Minrathous.”_

_“Mother will love you,” Dorian said firmly. “You are everything my father was not, which puts you rather far ahead in her estimation already.”_

_“Just as Mia and Rio and the children will love you.” Cullen smiled and kissed his cheek when Dorian grumbled about Commanders too perceptive for their own good. “I promise.”_

Looking now over the sturdy outbuildings, the old-fashioned Ferelden yurt with its thatched roof, and the fields filled with happily-grazing druffalo, Dorian felt a little of his apprehension fade. This place, where Cullen had once run rampant and joyful with his siblings, seemed untouched by all the troubles that still plagued Thedas. The Blight had not touched its pristine fields, and here the Breach had been a far-off blot in the sky, dangerous only in the way that a rumor of dragons is dangerous.

Cullen started off down the slope, booted feet kicking up dust as he followed the narrow dirt track between the waist-high corn and the thick yellow wheat. Dorian followed a little more slowly, the horse coming behind. His eyes scanned the landscape, sharp and watchful as an eagle’s, looking for the people he’d heard so much about from Cullen's wistful reminiscing. A few hands worked the fields, but they were no Rutherfords—dark-haired and stocky, they were likely refugees from farther south, a second generation of Blight survivors making their living through honest labor.

As they neared the barn, a peak-roofed monstrosity that dwarfed the humble yurt, a slip of a boy came around the corner and stopped short. The bucket he carried clattered to the ground, spilling seed everywhere—the chickens that ambled freely about the yard came running at the sound, swarming the spilled grain in a flurry of squawks and feathers. Above it all there came a high, clear voice as the boy charged toward them: " _UNCLE CULLEN!!!_ "

Cullen boomed with laughter and scooped the child up, swinging him around in a high arc before clutching him to his chest. "Michel! You're ten feet tall!"

Dorian had a sudden and heart-stopping vision of Cullen with a child of his own, curly-haired and freckled with sun and laughter. Something Dorian could never give him. He swallowed hard and sank his chin deeper in his cowl.

"Where are your parents? Or have they gone to town and left you in charge of the _entire farm_?" Cullen asked with exaggerated shock.

"No!" Michel giggled, feet kicking in the air until Cullen set him back down. "Mama's here with Tiny, and Papa's doing books!"

"Well, what are you waiting for? Sound the alarm! Ring the bells! You're being invaded!"

In the midst of Michel's delighted laughter, there came a new voice, low and musical: "Would these invaders be erstwhile older brothers who haven't been home in twenty years?"

They both turned, facing the woman that walked toward them. She was long-limbed and lanky like Cullen, with a plain square face and a full, smiling mouth. Tight wavy hair the color of winter wheat was pulled back in a loose knot at her nape. She was garbed simply, leggings and shirt and a long wool tunic that was almost a dress—all in drab, hardy colors that spoke of sturdy make and hard wear. A bow and quiver were strapped to her back, but she shrugged them off and passed them to her son before falling into Cullen's arms.

"Mia," he whispered, and clutched her tightly. She seemed thin and waifish against his sturdy form, but Dorian could see that her shoulders were broad and her hands calloused and strong, and he didn't doubt she could wield her longbow with deadly accuracy.

"Maker take you, brother, but it's good to see your face." She pulled back and punched him in the arm, hard.

"Ow! What was that for?"

She grinned, but her eyes were strained. "For your terrible letter-writing, of course. One brief glimpse of your ugly mug on your way to Haven wasn't nearly enough to hold us over. I'm surprised Michel even remembered you."

"I'm hard to forget, it seems." He hugged her again, gentler this time. "How are you?"

"Doing better." She glanced at Michel, who was staring avidly at Dorian and hadn't heard a word of their conversation. "But not here. Michel, stop gawking and take their horse to the stable." She retrieved her weapon from him and gave him a fond swat on the backside that sent him trotting. "And tell your father we have company!"

" _Oui_ , _maman_!" came the perfectly accented response. Mia shook her head and turned back to them.

"And you must be Dorian, whom I've heard so little about." She glared at Cullen and put out her hand.

Dorian took it, a little hesitantly. Mia was neither Templar nor mage, but there was no mistaking the sharp lines of lyrium embedded in his palm, keenly visible even if she couldn't feel their power. But she shook hands with a sturdy, unfaltering grip, and looked into his eyes directly despite the shadow of his cowl. "Pleased to meet you," he said, trying to inject a little confidence into his voice. Her gaze seemed to split him open, looking past his brands to the man beneath. It was unnerving.

"And you. I'm so pleased that my straight-laced brother has finally found someone to help him remember how to smile."

Cullen's huff was lost in the sound of pattering feet, and Michel careened around the corner, followed closely by a tiny blonde tornado in skirts and dirt-smudged stockings. Michel went immediately to Cullen, tugging on his hand. "Uncle, this is Tiny. Well actually her name's Petunia, but she's little so I call her Tiny."

Petunia had come to a standstill behind her mother's legs. She peered around them now, revealing one big blue eye and a dandelion-puff of yellow-blonde curls. What little he could see of her face was speckled with freckles like a thrush’s egg. Mia patted the top of her head with a sigh. “Say hello, ’Tunia.”

“’Lo.” Her voice was barely audible as she stared between Cullen, with his broad, friendly smile, and Dorian, who was all but melting into his cowl.

“Hello,” Cullen said politely. “I’m your Uncle Cullen.”

Her eyes bulged, and she swayed away from her mother’s skirts, tempted by this new piece of information. Michel tore himself away from Cullen’s side to scoop her up. He was thin and lanky for a boy on the cusp of adulthood, but she was tiny in his arms, her slender limbs and little pointed chin speaking volumes of an infancy spent in illness. She tucked her head under her brother’s chin as Michel approached them, arms locked around his neck like a vise.

“C’mon, Tiny, you love my stories about Uncle Cullen,” Michel coaxed, turning so that she could peer at them from the safety of his shoulder. “This is him, in the flesh!”

But she wasn’t looking at Cullen, not anymore—she was looking at Dorian. He shifted his feet and coughed awkwardly. “I think I might be frightening her.”

Mia opened her mouth, but her son beat her to it. “You should take your hood off, Mister. Tiny doesn’t like people with no faces.”

“Michel, hush,” Mia said gently. “Ser Dorian is a guest and he may keep his hood if he likes.”

“It’s all right. I was afraid my tattoos would… alarm the children. But perhaps it is best to be honest from the start, yes?” With no pack horse to hide behind, Dorian couldn’t stall any longer. He flipped his hood back, blinking against the unvarnished sun, and smoothed his short hair back from his forehead self-consciously. Why he’d allowed Leliana to have her wicked way with him he would never be sure. First the beard, now this… one by one his defenses were being stripped away. But as Petunia turned her huge cornflower-blue eyes on him, not with fear but with fascination, a little bit of his reserve melted away. He held his hands out, palm up, and smiled. “See? Nothing scary about it.”

Michel’s eyes were just as wide, and the same deep russet-gold as his mother and uncle. “That is… _so cool_!” he exclaimed as Petunia scrambled out of his hold. Apparently content now that Dorian’s hood was down, she darted over to Cullen and slipped her tiny hand into his.

“Michel said you’d be taller,” she chirped.

Dorian couldn’t help it—he burst out laughing. Petunia giggled along, happy to share his amusement even if she was too young to understand the joke, and Cullen scooped her up gently with a mock growl. “I’m plenty taller than you, Miss ’Tunia, and don’t you forget it.”

Soon Mia coaxed them all into the house, threatening to send her children off to their chores if they didn’t leave the guests alone. Cullen insisted he didn’t mind and carried his niece along as if she weighed nothing; Michel tagged closely at his heels, glancing now and then at Dorian with boyish captivation.

Within the humble yurt they found Riordan at his desk, as promised. Dorian tried to hide his surprise as he shook hands with the man. He looked more like a plush Orlesian merchant than a Ferelden farmer, although he supposed more of the former ran through his veins than the latter. Rio—as he insisted on being called—was shorter than his wife by several inches, with a generous stomach and stunning red hair combed into a neatly-oiled plait down his back. He was good-looking, Dorian supposed, in a jovial-long-lost-uncle sort of way, but he could scarcely credit Mia ever having agreed to marry him. Persistence over looks, he supposed.

“Come, come,” Rio boomed, clapping his meaty hands together. “A meal for our starving travelers, no? Michel, fetch my good brandy, there’s a lad. _Fleur_ , some daisies for the table.”

The children scurried to obey with cries of “ _Oui,_ Pèpe!” and Dorian found himself chivvied into a seat at the family table, Cullen on his right and Mia across from them. She reached immediately for her brother’s hand and held it tightly while Rio busied himself with the food.

“You promise you’re well?” she said softly, mindful of Michel still in the one-roomed structure, though he was busy at the other side with his father’s liquor cabinet. “Your last letter was so vague.”

“I am. We both are.” Cullen glanced at Dorian from the corner of his eye, and he felt his brands tingle slightly with the strength of his regard. “The worst of it is over, now. All that remains is the clean-up, and we have happily left that task to others more eager for it.”

Mia shook his arm with a huff of impatience. “You silly man, I meant the lyrium! The sky is clear and the town criers have told us more than enough of the Inquisitor’s brave deeds. I don’t care about him—I want to hear about _you_.”

Dorian couldn’t help but laugh. “If only Trevelyan could hear you say that. I would dearly love to see his face.”

“The Inquisitor is a good man, Mia,” Cullen told her, though he was smiling too, his amusement reflected through the bond. “But I understand. It is hard to relate to heroes. I am well in that regard, too. I promise. The withdrawal is nearly nonexistent now, with Dorian.” He hesitated as Petunia burst back in, an armful of yellow-faced daisies in her arms. “But we can speak of that in more detail later.”

Michel returned with the brandy decanter then, and Rio with a massive platter of bread and cheese and cold meats, and they fell to eating with riotous, cheerful abandon. Michel had claimed Cullen’s other side immediately, and Petunia stuffed herself onto her mother’s lap where she could stare avidly at both visitors as they broke bread together. With both parents side by side, Dorian could see that while the children had received their rangy, long-limbed frames from their mother, their round, smiling faces belonged to Rio.

The hair—glorious, golden, corkscrew curls—were all Rutherford.

With the children present, they left off weightier topics to discuss other things: the weather, the farm, their trip, and Cullen’s other siblings. Rosalie and her husband were still in South Reach, but had hopes of moving to a comfortable plot of land adjoined to the Rutherford homestead. They had four children altogether, and hoped that living closer to Mia and Rio would help ease the burden a little. Branson lived nearby, and often joined them for dinner, so they had not bothered to send a messenger to his sheep farm to tell him of the new arrivals.

“He makes a wonderful bachelor, unlike you,” Mia told them, laughing at Cullen’s disgruntled face. “For instance, he can cook things _besides_ oversalted stew and dried jerky.”

Dorian listened much but spoke little, too busy eating to join in conversation. He knew the names they bandied about and not much else, and he was content to let brother and sister reunite in peace. Rio listened as well, though he joined in occasionally with his rolling Orlesian voice, making sure everyone was well-supplied with food and drink and that the children were behaving themselves.

When the food was cleared away, Mia brought out a pot of tea and sent the children to play. They ran out shrieking like a pair of hyenas—something about the Fade and _it’s my turn to be the ‘quisitor, Michel!_ —and Mia pushed back from the table with a weary smile.

“I can show you your little space in the barn if you’d like to rest. It’s only the loft, but Rio’s worked wonders on the place.”

Cullen cleared his throat. “I wondered if we might visit David, actually.”

Dorian went still. Cullen had told him about the newest addition to the Rutherford clan, who succumbed to cholera very shortly after being born. He realized now how obvious the absence was, written in the weary sorrow that clung to Mia’s laughter, the gaps in conversation where once another name would have fit so easily. Mia nodded and stood.

“Riordan, _cher_ , will you watch the children?

“ _D’accord_.” Rio put a hand on her waist, a brief touch that seemed to take a little of her stooping sorrow, and left the yurt at an ambling pace.

Mia led them through the waist-high grass behind her home to an old tree that grew at the edge of the corn rows. The air was fresh and warm, tinged with the grassy smell of the corn, and it ruffled Dorian’s long tunic as he walked behind the siblings at a respectful distance. He felt out of place. He would have happily gone to mind the children, foreign to him as they were; but Cullen was there, in his brands, in his heart, silently begging him not to go. So he didn’t.

At the base of the tree was a little flat stone, lying amidst the roots like a child cradled by its mother. The earth beneath was undisturbed. Mia tangled her fingers with Cullen’s and leaned against him. “His ashes were scattered in the Reach, but Rio made this to take with us.” Her voice was thin with old grief, as if her tears had all been wept, leaving only weariness in their wake. “He was lovely, Cullen. His hair was fire-red and curly, and he had the angriest cry you ever heard.”

Cullen choked out a laugh. “Rio’s spitting image, then.”

“In looks, anyway. He would have grown up learning how to laugh instead of shout.” She exhaled long and slow, and leaned against her brother’s shoulder.

Part of Dorian wanted to slip away quietly and give them this moment of peace together. A very large part. But Cullen held out his other hand, palm up, and he could feel the question in his brands. He answered with his fingers laced through Cullen’s, and his solid weight against his lover’s unprotected side. Together they flanked him, flimsy trees made strong. Dorian stared at the stone, with its name carved deep in simple, scrolling letters, and thought a little prayer for Cullen’s sake.

/

They returned to the yurt some time later, dry-eyed and quiet, to find Rio on the front stoop cradling a mug of tea, a circlet of daisies looped clumsily over his head. Petunia ran to her mother and hugged her knees.

“I’m a floor,” she declared with great pride, and dashed away again to right the flower crown that was falling into Rio’s eyes.

“A _fleur_ , petite,” her father corrected absently, stroking her wild hair back from her forehead. “Come, you're as wild as a field full of them today."

She sat on his knee obediently and let him tame her mane into a tidy braid that fell thinly down her back, ending in a single whimsical corkscrew curl. Then she turned to Dorian and said, matter-of-factly, "Did it hurt?"

All the adults froze. "Did what hurt?" Dorian asked carefully through the sudden razor-sharp tension. Rio made to quiet his daughter, but Cullen shook his head.

"When the stars cried on your face. Mama says the stars are fire, and they burn from way up high like lantens. And when they get sad they cry sparks, and that's what a shooting stars is."

"It did hurt," Dorian said eventually through a cracked throat. He lowered himself to the stoop a short distance away, smoothing the fall of his tunic over his thighs. "But not anymore. Would you like to feel?"

With the briefest glance at her father for permission, Petunia scrambled off his lap and into Dorian's. She was so light, delicate arms thin and blue-veined, pale eyes serious as she looked into Dorian's face. He stuck his chin out in invitation. Slowly, as if waiting for him to bite, she reached up and laid her palms flat against his branded cheeks. They were warm and slightly moist, a bit of honey on one thumb smearing near his nose. But she was gentle, as solemn as a little soldier, and Dorian felt something small and warm well up in his chest at the sweet, childish tenderness in her touch.

With great care, he let the brands light up, let them glow like the eerie colors that danced in the night sky this far south. Petunia squealed with delight and patted his cheeks. “Pretty!” she exclaimed, and to his infinite surprise, she leaned in and placed a wet, sticky kiss to his nose.

“’Tunia!” her mother chided, but Dorian laughed and squeezed her gently around the waist.

“She’s fine, Mia. I don't mind.”

“Still.” Smiling indulgently, Mia handed over her handkerchief.

As he wiped away the sticky residue, Dorian looked over Petunia's head to where Cullen stood. The look on his face was like a physical blow: soft and yearning, delight blended with sorrow, and so tender it stole Dorian's breath away. _He is seeing what I saw, with him and Michel_. The thought stuck in his throat, and he covered the wash of emotion through the bond with rough scrubbing.

“You’ve got honey all over me, you horrible child,” he groused, sending Petunia giggling as he wiped at every part of his face that _wasn't_ sticky.

“You’re doing it wrong!” she told him. He let her take the cloth and wipe his face for him, avoiding eye contact with Cullen. There was a strange lump in his throat, and looking at him just made it worse.

“Gently, _ma fleur_ ,” Rio cautioned her, smiling. He seemed totally unconcerned that his little girl was in the arms of a lyrium-branded mage from Tevinter. It was baffling.

“I think I’d like to see that loft now,” Cullen said, rescuing Dorian from the confusing jumble of emotions that tangled in his breast—and likely in the bond. Oops. Dorian calmed himself and rose, depositing Petunia gently onto the grass. Cullen caught his eye. _All right?_ It was all there in his face, like an open book.

Dorian dipped his chin and followed Mia to the stables.

/

“Is anything wrong?”

“Not wrong, precisely.” Dorian set his pack against the wall, ducking to avoid the sharply slanted ceiling, and dropped onto the low mattress with a huff of weariness. It was stuffed only with straw, but it was well padded and piled high with blankets. After days on the road, it felt like heaven.

Cullen stripped off his belt and dropped it in a coil of leather. His boots were kicked off carelessly at the end of the bed. Dorian watched with interest, but he stopped there, crawling onto the mattress and dropping his head into Dorian’s lap with a weary smile. “Sorry about the kids. And the… everything. The noise. The rush.”

“It was good. They’re good kids.” Dorian carded his fingers through Cullen’s hair, disrupting the careful way he’d combed it into place that morning until it curled rebelliously under his touch. “It’s so easy to imagine you that way, now. Young and guileless.”

“I have guile?”

“Well, no. I suppose it was the ‘young’ part that was difficult for me to picture.” Dorian smirked, and tugged lightly on his hair. Cullen groaned softly and he dug his fingers in in earnest, massaging Cullen’s scalp with firm strokes. “Mia is beautiful.”

“She is.” Cullen smiled, eyes closed. “We were thick as thieves when we were younger.”

“Still are, as far as I can see.”

“Hmm.”

Cullen wasn’t going to press him. He had felt the turmoil through the bond, and he wasn’t going to say anything about it. Not unless Dorian spoke first. He swallowed. “Do you regret not being able to have children?”

“That… is not what I expected you to say.” Cullen looked up at him and reached out a hand, smoothing the soft, shaven curve of Dorian’s cheek. “Is that what this is about?”

“Seeing you with Michel affected me more than I thought it would,” Dorian admitted. “And I could tell, when I had Petunia in my lap, you were… sad?”

“Not sad. A little awed, maybe. I’ve never seen you interact with children before.” He grinned. “It was adorable.”

“I was terrified of dropping her.”

“You were sitting down, Dorian.”

“She’s so tiny!” Dorian insisted. “I don’t know what the optimum height for child-dropping is, but I’m sure her threshold is much lower. Don’t laugh.”

“Sorry.” His hand gentled and cupped the back of Dorian’s neck, dragging him down for a kiss. His mouth was relaxed and soft, even bordered by stubble, and as familiar and warm as it had ever been. “To answer your question, love—no. I adore Michel and Petunia, and I’m sure I’ll love Rosalie’s children too, when I finally meet them. But I like what I have. I _love_ what I have,” he growled, tugging at the hair at Dorian’s nape. “I love you.”

“And I you.” Dorian kissed him again, lightly, and drew away, but the question still felt unanswered.

/

Branson Rutherford came to dinner, and Dorian spent much of it blinking in awed silence. Older by only two years, Branson was the spitting image of his brother, but with a reddish tinge to his curls and a full mountain-man beard that had Dorian sending a few speculative looks in Cullen’s direction. He’d never thought himself particularly attracted to facial hair, but for Cullen he would make an exception. A very big exception.  

“Of all people, brother, I never would have expected a _mage_ , let alone a Tevinter,” Branson rumbled over desert. That was the other difference between them—the elder Rutherford had a voice like a basso gittar, husky with disuse and not the mellow tenor Dorian had fallen in love with. “Fate has a funny sense of humor.”

“I won’t disagree with you,” Cullen answered cheerfully. He eyed Dorian over his mug of coffee, laughter lines crinkling softly. “But it’s a sense of humor I share.”

Dorian smiled back, but it was muffled by a face-full of curls as Petunia scrambled into his lap. “Monsieur Dorian, I have a boo-boo!”

“Tsk! Playing too roughly, were you? Let me see, _petite_.” He took her proffered hand, small and sticky from dessert. She had skinned her thumb on something, turning the knuckle an angry red. He was no healer, but this tiny thing could hardly be called a wound. He lit up his brands, distracting her from tears, and brought the hand to his lips to kiss like a courtier. “And _voila_ —you are cured, my lady. Good as new.”

She stared at the smooth patch of skin and squealed. “ _Merci,_ Monsieur!”

“Handy trick,” Branson said as she scrambled off his lap and back to the fire. “Do you always glow like that?”

“Only when I want to make an impression. Or when I’m fighting darkspawn Magisters.” He glanced at Cullen, who was watching the exchange with quiet interest. “So, reasonably often.”

“Is it true that you fought an archdemon singlehandedly, and won?” Mia asked. “There are so many wild stories, I have no idea what to believe.”

“Oh, yes, you’ve heard correctly. Cullen killed Corypheus in a single swipe and I turned into a dragon and killed his pet archdemon. The Inquisitor didn’t have to lift a finger.”

Cullen snorted. “You need to practice your sarcasm, love, that almost sounded realistic.”

“Given the lives we lead, _amatus_ , anything is possible.”

Mia’s brow crinkled as she looked between the two of them. “You don’t mean that, do you? A dragon? That’s not possible.”

“As you say, the stories they make up about us are rather fanciful. I blame that dwarf.” Dorian let his foot kick lightly against Cullen’s under the table. The look he got in return was hot enough to raise a flush beneath the brands on his cheeks. “He never knows when to put down his pen and leave well enough alone.”

“You never could resist playing hero,” Branson said, sounding almost wistful.

“Everyone needs someone to look out for them, especially from tormenting older brothers.” Mia pushed the plate of little plum tarts toward her brothers, and Dorian watched in amusement as they knocked each other’s hands aside reaching for the biggest one.

“Arm-wrestle you for it,” Cullen offered.

Branson flexed, muscles bulging under his simple homespun tunic. “You’re on.”

It was a close match—ex-Commander of the Inquisition against humble sheepherder. While Cullen’s bulk came from rigorous training, Branson had the brawn of a man who worked hard every day of his life for the simplest pleasures his brother now took for granted. Dorian knew first-hand how skilled Cullen was with sword and shield, but at the end of the day, Branson’s sheer grit won out. Cullen let him slam his knuckles to the table with a rueful laugh and accepted the smaller tart.

“Getting soft, brother,” Branson mumbled around a mouthful of fruit and pastry. “Need to work on those arms.”

/

After dinner had been cleared away and conversation exhausted, they returned to their humble loft. Cullen stopped just inside to check on their packhorse, who was munching happily on the plentiful grass some charitable stablehand had dropped in the trough, and Dorian leaned against the stall partition to watch. He knew a little of horses, but Cullen had lived with them as a boy and rode frequently as an adult, and his touch was steady and sure as he ran his hands over the thick shoulders and sturdy fetlocks of their broad Ferelden beast. The horse whickered and flicked its tail, unconcerned.

“None the worse for wear, old girl. It’ll take more than a hard trek through the mountains to wear you out, hmm?”

Dorian grinned into his cowl. “Softie.”

“What? She’s a good horse,” Cullen protested. He leaned against the barrel-shaped belly like a boy putting all his weight on a full-sized mabari, with about as much effect. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I like animals.”

“I might have picked up on a few hints, here and there.” Dorian stroked the nag’s velvet nose, breathing in the scent of hay and dust and warm, musky horse. “I can see it runs in the family.”

“You mean Branson? He’s always liked animals more than people.” Cullen patted the horse on the rump and came to the stall door. “He didn’t put you off at dinner, I hope? He can be a bit… brusque, but he means well.”

“ _He_ can be brusque? My dear Commander, you’ve clearly never had the pleasure of interacting with yourself first thing in the morning on a Tuesday.”

Cullen’s chest rumbled with laughter. “Why Tuesdays?”

“Tuesdays in Ferelden are funny things. Terrible things always seem to fall on a Tuesday.” Dorian leaned forward so that their noses touched, wrinkling his own at the smell of animal sweat. Somehow it was endearing rather than disgusting. “It stresses you terribly.”

“ _You_ stress me terribly, ‘Monsieur Pavus.’ Turning into a dragon indeed.”

“She’s your sister. I thought you wouldn’t mind.”

“I don’t want to worry her. She has enough on her plate as it is.” His face fell a little, and Dorian coaxed it back up with a finger under his chin.

“ _Amatus_ , it strikes me that we are finally alone after a day in the company of others.”

“Is that so?” Cullen said, laughing. “Do you have designs on my virtue?”

“A great many designs, in fact. All of them wicked.”

“Promises, promises.”

Dorian shut his smirking mouth with his own and Cullen relaxed into it with a sigh. Even with the stall door between them, the give of Cullen’s scarred lips sent a lazy spiral of heat through his brands. He hummed and bit lightly, teeth infinitely gentle in spite of his ‘promises,’ and Cullen teased back with a delicate flick of his tongue. He tasted like plums and coffee, bittersweet. Dorian licked a grain of sugar away from the corner of his mouth.

From nearby came the a scuffle and a gasp, and they broke apart hastily with a wet sound. When Dorian turned, it was to find Petunia peering over the edge of the empty stall next to them, wide-eyed. “You’re _kissing_ friends!”

“Erm… yes. Like your parents,” Cullen said, redder than his tunic.

“Maman and Pèpe aren't _friends_ ,” Petunia said scornfully, “they’re married.”

Dorian and Cullen exchanged an amused glance. “The point stands,” Dorian told her, wondering how to explain their relationship to a child. “We aren’t married, but we live like husband and wife.”

Petunia’s freckled face knit in confusion. “But you're both boys.”

“That doesn’t preclude our ability to love one another fully and completely,” Dorian said gently.

His vocabulary was likely far out of her realm of understanding, but her face cleared when Cullen lifted Dorian's hand to his mouth for a chaste kiss. “Uncle Cullen, can I have a story before I go to bed?”

"Of course, ’Tunia. Come on." Cullen slung the girl over his shoulders like a sack of potatoes and carried her, kicking and laughing, back to the house.


	2. 2.

A few weeks passed in an eye-blink. Unaccustomed to farm work, Dorian was pressed into service as a child-minder, a task he warmed to quickly. Petunia decided early on that he was to be her personal conjurer of magelights and butterflies, and she took great pleasure in ordering him about as seriously as a little lady of the court. Michel, being older, was simply happy for the extra pair of hands helping with his chores.

“They like you better than they like me,” Cullen laughed towards the end of that first week, watching as the children fought for the honor of sitting next to Dorian at dinner. He settled the matter by putting Petunia on one knee, and Michel took the seat beside him without any more fuss.

“I’m just new and exciting,” Dorian said, though he couldn’t deny the childish hero-worship was gratifying. “They’ll be through with me by next week.”

His prediction was eerily accurate—a fortnight after their arrival in Honnleath, a rider appeared at the edge of the farm, a slim young woman with dark, curly and the golden Rutherford eyes. She wore a staff across her back like a polearm, but Dorian could taste the magic lingering under her skin and knew her for an apostate. Petunia and Michel flocked to her side instantly, their preference for Dorian’s company melting away at excitement of a new arrival.

“Clare, Clare!” Petunia shouted, and jumped into the girl’s arms as soon as she was free of the horse. Michel dropped his bowl of half-shucked peas and abandoned Dorian on the porch to greet the newcomer. Drawn by the ruckus, Mia came out of the house and stood beside Dorian, dusting her hands clean of flour.

“Clarice, my sister’s oldest. They must be on their way.”

Dorian glanced away from the boisterous reunion to look intently at her. “Cullen didn’t mention there was magic in your family.”

“Cullen doesn’t know.” Mia craned her neck, but her brother and husband were in the fields inspecting the new crop and weren’t expected back before dinner. “It’s not an issue anymore, of course, but when he was a Templar… my sister married an apostate, you see. It’s sad to say, but we were grateful when Cullen’s duties at Kinloch prevented him from coming to the wedding.”

Clarice had finally torn herself free of the youngsters and was heading their way. Mia shed her apron and went to meet her. Side by side, the girl was like a dark-haired copy of her aunt, and Dorian shook his head in amusement. Rutherford blood ran strong, it seemed.

“Dorian, this is Clarice,” Mia said, turning to invite him into the fray. “Clare, Dorian, your Uncle Cullen’s… hmm…”

“Beau? Paramour? Suitor?” Dorian grinned. “I suppose ‘lover’ isn’t appropriate in polite company.” He held out his hand for Clare to shake, unthinking.

Clare put her own hand out and then jerked it back slightly, looking at the brands in his hand and then up to his face. “I…”

“I’m no Templar,” he said gently. “Nor a Tranquil. Just a mage with some unusual tattoos.”

“Lyrium?” she guessed, her voice a lighter, more carefree version of Mia’s. She finally took his hand, and Dorian breathed in the crackle of static and the tang of elemental magic. Clare was a powerful mage, and very controlled—he wondered where she’d learned that control, if not the Circle. Presumably her father.

“Yes, yes. But that’s a story for another day.” Mia shooed away her own children, who had trailed after their cousin like overeager puppies. “Michel, ride out and let your father know Rosalie has arrived. They _are_ nearby, yes?”

“A half-hour’s walk,” Clare confirmed. “They sent me ahead to…” her eyes flitted to Dorian and away again, “check.”

“Cullen is in the fields with Rio, but you have nothing to fear from him. He’s no longer a Templar, and not liable to turn you in even if he was.” Mia turned to Michel again, who seemed loath to be sent away. “When you’ve spoken to your father, ride south and tell your aunt and uncle all is well, and that we’re expecting them for supper. _D’accord?_ ”

“Oui, mère,” Michel said smartly and dashed away, excited at the prospect of his grown-up job.

“He’ll be all right leaving the farm by himself?” Dorian murmured.

“Certainly. He goes into town alone quite frequently—this trip is a skip and a jump by comparison.” Mia looped her arm through Clare’s and guided her into the house, Dorian at their heels. “I wish we had better quarters to offer you, but the barn will have to do, I’m afraid.”

Clare shrugged round shoulders easily. “We’ve been sleeping in the wagon for weeks. I’ll take a pile of hay to myself over that any day.”

A short while later, Cullen and Rio returned from the fields. Cullen was windblown and red-cheeked from the ride as he bent to kiss Dorian’s brow, snatching a biscuit from the communal plate. “You must be Clarice,” he said warmly. Only a faint flicker of his eyelids betrayed the sudden understanding of what Clare was, and what his family had kept from him. “I’m so glad to finally meet you.”

She regarded him intently, taking in the scar on his lip, the scruff on his chin, his workworn hands and simple travel leathers, devoid of any sword—merciful or otherwise. “And I you.”

“How old are you now?” Cullen asked as he sat at Dorian’s side, accepting a fresh cup of tea from his sister. “It seems like only yesterday Rosie was writing me about your birth.”

“I’m fourteen, ser. Nan and Pieter are seven, and Daisy is two.”

“That’s quite a brood to keep track of on the road from South Reach,” Mia said, shaking her head. “I don’t envy her. How was the journey?”

“Hellish,” Clare said flatly, pulling a startled laugh from her aunt. “The twins can take care of themselves, mostly, but Daisy was afraid of every little noise—she rode in a sling on my back most of the way. I think I’ve gained two stone in muscle since we left home.”

Rio boomed with goodnatured laughter and plied her with more tea and questions, drawing the taciturn girl’s attention from Cullen. He blew out a quiet breath and leaned into Dorian’s shoulder. “I’m such a fool.”

Dorian perked up, turning away from the conversation to speak low into Cullen’s ear. “What do you mean?”

“My own niece, a mage, and my family too terrified of my rank to tell me.” His brow was crumpled unhappily, and it made Dorian want to smooth it with a kiss. He settled for a gentle thumb against his scarred lip and down through his stubble to brush a crumb from his chin.

“That life is behind you, _amatus_. And we’re here now. There will be plenty of time to reconcile, if that is what you need.”

“I believed so strongly in the Templar cause,” Cullen murmured. “It’s like a dream, now. I can barely remember that man.”

Dorian hummed. “He’s become someone far better.”

Cullen smiled faintly and opened his mouth to speak, but he was cut off by the slam of the door. A soft-faced woman with yellow curls burst in, red-cheeked and panting with exertion, a small child strapped to her back. Everyone rose from the table at once but Cullen jumped forward first, catching her as she stumbled in weariness.

“Rosie?”

“Attacked,” she gasped, so winded her voice was like a thread sawn apart on a jagged blade. “Oh Maker, I couldn’t—Thom told me to run, but they’re still back there, the children—”

“Attached by whom?” Cullen barked, cutting through the hubbub that rose at this proclamation. Even Petunia stopped crying to stare at him in shock. “Bandits?”

Rosalie clutched at her brother’s jerkin as he lowered her into a chair, breath coming in heaving sobs. “Darkspawn.”

Cullen met Dorian’s eyes over his sister’s bowed head. He nodded once. Like a ghost, Dorian rose and slipped out of the little home, bolting for the barn while Cullen got the rest calmed down. The rush of adrenaline surging through him was familiar, as much an old friend as the feel of a staff under his fingers as he gathered their weapons from their packs. He fought his way out of his robe and pulled on the simple leather jacket he’d brought, a small concession to the dangers of travel. It was no battlemage garb, but it was stitched through with protective enchantments and it would hold.

His brands were flickering to life as he slid down the ladder and ran across the field to the house. Mia was on the porch beside her brother, armed with bow and arrows—through the open door Dorian could see Rio gathering the children by the fire, his rich voice a calming murmur as he settled them down. Cullen took the sword and shield Dorian thrust at him and fixed the latter to his arm in a few practiced motions.

“Horses?”

“I know the ones we can take,” Mia said, leading the way back to the barn. “I’ll ride with Cullen. Dorian, how’s your seat riding bareback?”

“I can keep up,” Dorian replied grimly. He would have to.

Mana gathered in his chest and flowed down through the brands to him palms, ready to be unleashed, but he held back as they mounted up and rode out into the gathering dusk. The horse beneath him was steady and not easily spooked, but he knew the tension rolling off him was palpable; it sidestepped nervously as their little party rode past the boundary of the farm and into the gnarled woods that bordered its south edge.

They heard the clash and scream of metal and the harsh blast of spellcasting before they saw it. Ozone was thick in the air, and the excess mana Dorian couldn’t contain leapt from his fingertips in little threads of static. Mia dismounted first, stringing her bow and knocking an arrow in two breaths; at her side, Cullen’s blade gleamed naked in the half-light. Dorian breathed deeply and exhaled raw Fade, letting it breathe through the bond. Cullen shifted, and a glint of black ice crept along the surface of his shield—the place where his hand gripped the hilt crackled blue before fading.

“I’ll lead. Mia, cover me. Dorian… you know what to do.”

He did. In spite of his fears for Michel and the others, faceless to him but not nameless, the promise of battle thrilled in his veins. It had been so long since he and Cullen had fought together, and the instinct leapt to his fingertips like lightning.

They ran together through the murky trees, Cullen on point with Dorian at his heels, and Mia a shadow in the rear. Through the undergrowth they could see the flares of light, and hear shouts raised in battle. A flicker of intent ran through Dorian’s brands and then Cullen charged with a mighty roar that seemed to shake the woods.

Staff in one hand, Dorian spread his arms and let the life of the forest spring into sharp relief. A knot of darkspawn soured its heart, with a beacon of icy light cutting through the oily black where Thom, Rosalie’s apostate husband, fought tooth and nail. Behind him, through a thicket of thorns and shrubbery, two little shapes crouched in the lee of a third, unharmed but petrified. Dorian cast a barrier over them, and another over Thom, before lifting his hands and bringing down the heavens.

Lighting boiled in the trees, striking darkspawn and leaping between them—their screams rent the air at a fever pitch, and the putrid scent of smoke and char rose thickly in the balmy summer night. He could feel the wavering relief of Thom’s mana, nearly depleted. He wished briefly and fiercely that he had any small talent with creationism. In lieu of bolstering Thom’s power, he sent tendrils through the ground and into the hearts of dead darkspawn, raising them up to fight their brothers.

He couldn’t get a grasp on their numbers—the taint in their blood multiplied them in his head, confusing the mana he expelled to try and count their heartbeats, and those he raised only muddied the waters further. He concentrated on Cullen instead, focusing the ebb and flow of mana on his fire-bright form. He glowed in Dorian’s mind, drawing on his magic and enhancing it, and Dorian was able to step away from his own head a little, letting Cullen be the touchstone for his power.

His momentary lapse was very nearly fatal. A Hurlock careened out of the trees and straight into him, sword missing his gut by a few blessed inches. Dorian was wrenched into a tree and down, falling face-first into loam and rotted leaves. He spat them out and rolled away from the creature’s graceless flailing, focusing a small burst of mental power that sent it tumbling back again, head over heels. Panting, he scrambled upright, grasping desperately for the thread that led him to Cullen.

Down. He was down. Dorian pushed a flare of magelight high into the trees and it glowed brighter than the sun, sending the darkspawn hissing and shrieking in protest. Vindictive, he poured his mana into it until it dazzled his eyes, trying to see where Cullen had fallen.

Then, out of the dark, war cries: “For the Grey Wardens!”

Dorian startled back and stumbled over Cullen. The brands glowed in reaction, but they disappeared in the wash of white coming from the seething cloud of magelight over their heads. By its illumination darkspawn fell and died under the blades and arrows of the newcomers, but Dorian’s attention was on Cullen. The magelight washing the color from everything it touched, turning his skin bone-white marred only by a smear of black blood across one cheek. Dorian scrubbed it away viciously with the hem of his cuff.

Cullen’s eyes blinked open, golden and dazed, one darker than the other. His pupils were mismatched. “Dorian?” he murmured, and smiled. “You look like an angel.”

“Fine time to be sweet talking me, Commander,” Dorian said shakily. He ran trembling fingers through Cullen’s hair, pulling back when he felt the raised bump behind one ear. The yellow curls were damp with sweat, but free of blood as far as he could see, darkspawn or otherwise.

“No… a halo. You have a halo. Like Andraste.” His lashes fluttered, and through his brands Dorian could feel his consciousness slipping away.

“Blighted idiot,” he whispered.

“Dorian?”

His head whipped around at the familiar voice—the battle was seemingly over. “Felix? What in the blazes are you doing here?”

“Hauling your sorry arse out of a darkspawn ambush, is what it looks like.” Felix crouched beside him, breathing heavily but flushed with adrenaline and vigor. The spark of his black eyes dimmed as he recognized Cullen’s prone form. “He’s alive?”

“Yes. Knocked on the head. I don’t think he was cut.”

“Good. We can have our healer look to make sure. Were there any others?”

“Here.” Mia stepped out of the trees, picking her way through the darkspawn corpses like a highbred lady. The unstrung bow and empty quiver spoke otherwise. “Thom, rest easy. They’re friends.”

Thom seemed to step out of nowhere to fill the space beside his sister-in-law—a cloaking spell of some kind, Dorian guessed. He was drooping in the wake of the fight, but still managed to tower over Mia, taller than any man Dorian had seen barring a qunari. His hair was a dark thicket of sweaty, blood-slicked curls, and his honey-toned skin was washed nearly to chalk-white by the magelight and by weariness. He sketched a small bow in their direction.

“Forgive me if I don’t stay for introductions—I need to find the children.”

“They’re safe,” Dorian said, gesturing, “somewhere… that way.”

“My thanks, serrah.” Graceful as a stork and just as lanky, Thom melted away again, and Dorian turned back to Felix.

“We were in the area,” his friend said before he could repeat his earlier question. “A few pockets of darkspawn here and there, no cause for alarm—except by those who encounter them.” He stood, brushing off his knees, as a handful of other Wardens straggled in from the outskirts of the battlefield. “May I present Wardens Harper and and Howe? Carver you know." Hawke's brother gave a curt nod, wiping his blade free of darkspawn blood. "Sers, my friend Dorian and his… friend.”

“He’s undercover as a sack of potatoes at the moment, don’t mind him,” Dorian said lightly. “But if  you’ve a healer with you, I’d much appreciate you taking a look at him.”

“That would be me.” A young woman—almost a girl—stepped forward, face still pocked by adolescence and an ironwood staff resting easily in one hand. Dorian eyed her dubiously.

“The Wardens are recruiting from kiddie-school now?”

“We’re desperate,” Howe said, dead-pan, but he nudged her forward with the butt-end of his longbow. “Harper’s a real talent, serrah, never fear. A better match for our last spirit healer I’ve yet to find.”

“I can’t thank you enough for intervening when you did,” Mia interjected as Harper bent to her work. “We had no inkling that darkspawn were in the area, or I wouldn’t have sent my boy on ahead by himself.”

“We've been trying to warn people, my lady,” Carver said. “We only just passed through Honnleath. They spoke of the Rutherford farms, and we were coming to alert you— too late, I'm afraid.”

“Just in time, in fact.” Thom had returned, guiding Michel and a younger boy around the worst of the carnage. The third child he bore in his arms, a girl, her face buried in her father’s neck. He trembled with the effort of holding her, but made no move to put her down. “I don’t know what we would have done if you hadn’t come. And you, serrah.” He nodded to Dorian. “Surely the Maker smiled on us today.”

“The Maker has a funny way of showing himself,” Dorian replied, glancing around at the blackened corpses littering the peaceful woodland. It felt like days since he’d last sat in the sun, Cullen at his side and a happy child on his knee, but in truth it had barely been an hour.

“He is free of the taint.” The spirit healer piped up suddenly, her voice a little wisp under the rustle of foodsteps and the creak of armor. “I’ve brought down the swelling, but he needs to rest. He’ll wake when he’s ready.”

Dorian let out a taut sigh of relief and massaged his chest. Abruptly exhausted, he let the magelight dim and dissipate. Little wisps floated through the trees like oversized fireflies, and Thom’s daughter—Nan—lifted her head with an exclamation of delight.

“We need to get home, let them know we’re all right,” Thom said quietly.

“Please, Wardens, won’t you join us?” Mia asked. “I’m afraid I have little compensation to offer, but we’ve plenty of dinner to share.”

Warden Howe bowed his dark head. “We won’t say no to a good meal, madame. And we wouldn’t accept payment even if you offered it. We were just doing our duty.”

/

Dinner was served late, but no one cared. An air of festivity had fallen over the Rutherford farm, infecting everyone with laughter and good cheer. Felix helped Rio roll out an enormous cask of home-brewed mead from the barn and the golden liquor flowed freely among the adults, while cider was poured for the children. Michel and Clare were allowed a small tipple of mead each, which they nursed with mixed expressions—eager to partake in such grownup rituals even if the flavor wasn’t to their liking.

Carver and Howe butchered a fat sow and roasted it over a massive fire pit until the skin crackled and the juices sizzled fragrantly on the hot coals. Between them, Felix, Dorian, and Warden Harper conjured a plethora of little magelights in all sorts of colors, and they danced through the yard and among the rafters of the barn as night dragged on and the drinking turned to feasting and stories were passed around the fire.

Cullen was the undisputed hero of the hour. At Warden Harper’s insistence, he was laid out on a cot piled with pillows and situated a comfortable distance from the fire. The children took turns sitting on the edge, swinging their legs and generally making a nuisance of themselves, but no one had the heart to tell them off. Dorian sat in a chair by his side and amused himself by hand-feeding him bits of pork and chunks of fruit; and, later, the soft, doughy morsels Mia had whipped up and fried with sugar in a skillet of hot oil.

“Enough,” he said at last, turning his head away with a laugh as Dorian pressed a bit of candied apple to his lips. “I’m stuffed fit to burst, love, I couldn’t eat another bite.”

“You look tired.” Dorian stroked the corner of Cullen’s eye with his thumb, teasing at the bond with a light pulse of mana through his brands.

“It’s been quite a day.” He leaned into Dorian’s touch with a soft sigh. One hand rested on his belly, slightly swollen from all the food he’d been plied with, and Dorian gave his waist a gentle pinch. “Mmph. G’way.”

“You’re getting soft, Commander. I think I like it.” He brushed a few stray curls from Cullen’s head, smiling. “If this is the retirement I have to look forward to, I find myself eagerly awaiting old age.”

Cullen peeked around through cracked eyelids at the fire, dying back to coals but still radiating heat. His family was strewn around it—the younger children sleeping in their parents’ laps, the older ones on their bellies in the grass playing with an erstwhile magelight. Felix crouched behind them, just out of sight, directing its flutter and bounce like a puppeteer. Across the fire, Harper snoozed with a mug of mead slipping from her slack grip, only to be rescued by Howe’s quick reflexes. Carver sat beside Rio, their voices rising and falling in low murmurs while Mia listened in contented silence, staring into the fire as she ran careworn fingers through her daughter’s yellow curls.

Cullen’s hand caught Dorian’s and held it against the smooth leather of his jerkin. “You want this? Working every day to put food on the table, children always underfoot?”

“Don’t forget the random darkspawn raids.”

“Well, naturally.”

A tug on Dorian’s robe drew his attention, and he turned as Petunia climbed sleepily into his lap. He boosted her up against his shoulder, cradling her slight frame with ease, and listened to the soft puffs of her breath as she dropped off almost immediately. He looked back to find Cullen smiling warmly at him.

“I don’t know about you, _amatus_ , but this is something I could easily get used to.”

Cullen squeezed his hand. “We have a while to go before we get here.”

“Then the arrival will be all the sweeter, hm?” He wanted to lean down and kiss him, audience be damned, but Petunia was snoring against his neck and he didn’t want to dislodge her. “Hold that thought, yes?”

“For you, always.”

Dorian rose, shaking his head, and wandered over to Mia, who was watching his progress indulgently. “I can put her to bed, if you like?”

“I’ll take her.” Mia rose and let Dorian pass her daughter over. Petunia barely even stirred. “You and Cullen can take the house. I won’t have him climbing to the loft in his condition, or sleeping on a pile of hay.”

“Goodness, my dear, I couldn’t take your home away from you. Cullen’s a big boy, you know.”

“I know. But after what happened today… please, Dorian, let me give you this. A real bed, a real roof over your heads, some privacy, at least for a little while. I can’t repay you in any other way.”

“Mia, you don’t need to repay me for anything—”

“You’ve saved this family,” she interrupted, firmly but soft so as not to wake her daughter. “We could have lost Thom, Michel, the twins… we could have lost the farm. Buildings can be rebuilt, crops resown, but family is all we have in the end.” She stepped closer, eye-to-eye with her lanky Rutherford height, and kissed his cheek chastely. “A family you’re a part of.”

Dorian smiled weakly. “Killing a few darkspawn is all it takes with you Fereldans, eh?”

“Nonsense. That was just the icing on the cake.” Mia’s eyes twinkled in the firelight. “You’re a Rutherford now, Dorian, whether you like it or not.”

His breast swelled with warmth at the thought, and he forced himself to sketch a bow instead of pulling her into a warm embrace. “I shall endeavor to come to terms with that fact.”

When he found his way back to Cullen, the man was past half-asleep and well on his way to full slumber. Dorian shook him gently. “Come, _amatus_. Bedtime.”

Cullen groaned something indiscernible into Dorian’s shoulder and allowed him to bear his weight away from the fire and into the humble yurt. Behind a heavy curtain was the master bed, a low mattress stuffed with clean rushes and smelling of fresh linen and clover. Dorian lowered him onto it and set about tugging him free of boots and belt, slapping away his hands when Cullen made clumsy efforts to assist.

“I’m not an invalid,” he mumbled into the pillow.

“You are, actually.” Dorian wriggled out of his own clothing and fell in beside him, laying his head on Cullen’s chest where he could feel his steady heartbeat. “Now go to sleep.”

“Mmf.” A broad, warm hand snaked up Dorian’s spine and settled at the nape of his neck, where the lyrium branched over his shoulder blades. The firm touch on the raised skin of his brands made him shiver and press close. “Why’re we in here?”

“Mia insisted. So no funny business, understand? I refuse to have sex in your sister’s bed—I’d never be able to look her in the eye the next morning.”

“Hmm.” Cullen’s fingers curled lightly, fingernails scraping just a little. Dorian shivered. “If you… ahhhhh… insist.” He yawned again, and his jaw cracked in Dorian’s ear. His breaths turned even and slow, and the rhythm of his chest under Dorian’s cheek grew serene.

“Love you,” Dorian whispered, and in the next moment he was asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And a nice little cameo from Carver and Nathaniel just because :P I wanted to add Sigrun, too, but that felt like pushing it. Hope you enjoyed! A few missing scenes from Danse are coming up, and then a slightly longer "sequel" that explores the final battle in more detail.

**Author's Note:**

> Did Dorian turn into a dragon? To be determined...


End file.
